In Perpetua
by amitai
Summary: MARY SUE PARODY. Jessica Emerald LumleyPartington is a very special girl. And poor, poor Alex Rider is about to find out just how special she is. ON TEMPORARY HIATUS
1. Chapter 1

Well! A new story - my masochism knows no bounds. Also, my plot bunnies know no sanity, the evil little furballs. It's 1.35 am, and when I started writing this 35 minutes ago, I had one page. I think my fingers are about to fall off.

Right! Well, since Alex Rider is THE place for Mary-Sues, I figured - well, we NEED a Mary Sue Parody. What kind of Mary Sue haven ARE we, if we haven't got a parody fic? So, I give my humble offering as remedy for this sad fact. It probably isn't funny; I may have unintentionally offended people with it. I don't really mind, to be honest. It's 1.35 am, and I'm knackered, so I'm going to post this and go to bed.

Oh, that's a point, actually; I don't really read Mary Sues. I did, extensively, when I was younger, because... well, they made me laugh, essentially. But now, they're all pretty much the same, with the odd different plot point here and there, and they're pretty obvious from the first chapter, so I stop reading them; I just can't be bothered. If this story looks like a ham-ed up version of your own - well, firstly, ARGH, WHY?! and secondly, it's not intentional.

Right! Onwards.

DISCLAIMER: If Anthony Horowitz even knows what a Mary Sue is, I will be surprised.

NOTE: OOC-ness and pointlessness abound. Yes, Mrs. Jones is out of character. Oh, wait, so is Alan Blunt. Yep, and when we get to them, Wolf and Yassen Gregorovich may also suffer from the dreaded plague of OOC. It is _intentional_. Please don't tell me about it; I already know.

* * *

Alex stared at the pair of them across the wide, leather-bound expanse of Alan Blunt's upmarket desk, in his upmarket office, in their upmarket Headquarters.

"Y-you – you have _got_ to be kidding me."

Mrs. Jones bit into one of the extra-special, diabetic-friendly chocolate peppermints she kept on her person at all times – her dietician had told her that her recently discovered diabetes necessitated this – and casually offered one to the other occupants of the room. Blunt took one; Alex, looking faintly disturbed, did not. "Oh, no, Alex. We're not 'kidding' you." she replied, finally, through a mouthful of confection. "No, we're completely serious."

"Well, sanity never was one of your strong points, I suppose." Alex muttered.

"What was that, Alex?" Blunt looked up for the first time, big dark bags under his grey eyes. His three year old son had recently discovered ghost stories, and he, Blunt senior, paid for it every night when the child woke up screaming. At this point, on his fifteenth sleepless night, he was seriously considering having one of his agents take the little brat out.

"I said…" he trailed off. "Oh, never mind. Look, who is this 'partner' of mine?" he paused. "Why the hell are you giving me a partner, anyway? What earthly use could I possibly have for a _partner_?" he managed to make the word sound faintly dirty; Alex, despite being all of fourteen, had a way with words. "All of my assignments require stealth and, you know – stealth! And adaptability! Two people aren't exactly better than one, and – what if it's some useless prat who can't count to ten without taking their mittens off?" he paused, waiting for an answer. Slowly, horror dawned on his face. "Oh. My. God. It is, isn't it?"

* * *

Jessica Emerald Lumley-Partington looked mournfully at herself in the mirror. Her long blonde hair, which was put up in a stylish 'do', beautifully complimented her perfectly tanned skin and tragic blue eyes, glistening with the grief caused by the sudden and convenient death of her parents.

Jessica – better known as 'Sic' to her friends – was on the way to the funeral of said parents. Mr. and Mrs. Lumley-Partington had adored their daughter – enough to leave her in the capable hands of their bodyguard-come-housekeeper, Lars van Hulk, a six foot four, forty seven year old Russian man who appeared crusty and mean on the outside, but who had a heart of gold, Jessica just knew.

"Get ass down here!" a voice bellowed from below. "We go funeral!"

Yes, Jessica was certain that he had a heart of gold under the front of his brilliantly executed 'mean old bastard' act. It was just a question of finding it.

She smiled tragically at him as she reached the bottom of the stairs. "It's alright, Lars." She said, valiantly, her eyes bright with tears, though she smiled bravely through them. It was just as well her parents had got her that waterproof mascara she'd so wanted. "It's alright for you to show how much you miss them. Just in front of me. I share your grief."

Lars quirked an eyebrow at her. "We go funeral." He repeated, giving her a little shove towards the door. Lars' equivalent of a little shove was on a par with a low level earthquake, so it was almost miraculous that Jessica managed to keep her balance – but Jessica was no ordinary girl.

No, Jessica was special. Very, very special.

Fluent in Mongolian, Esperanto and Swahili, a tenth degree black-belt in Tai Chi, and origami, and the possessor of her very own glue guns, Jessica had long been a cause of interest at MI6. And, since her parents had both worked there – Jessica wasn't supposed to know this, but she was amazingly observant, and had worked it out when she was two and a half – and hadn't liked her enough to arrange guardians after their likely deaths who _weren't_ Alan Blunt and Tulip Jones, Jessica was now a legal ward of Britain's elite secret intelligence service.

But she didn't know that yet. No, at the moment, Jessica was sat in the back of the sleek black car which had been hired to take the mourners to her parents joint funeral – they wanted to be cremated together; Jessica thought it was sweet, but then, she wasn't always the best judge of these things – and casually re-arranging her chic black skirt over her knees, quickly checking her nails to make sure that the polish was perfect, and pouting her perfectly glossed lips in the drivers mirror.

"Are you alright, Lars?" she asked, sweetly, after a long pause, glancing across at the man; he was staring out the opposite window with the expression of one who has been facing his own doom for the past several years. "You know, I feel your pain."

Lars glanced at her, shook his head, then grunted. "You will shut up now."

"You know, Lars, some people find it easier to deal with their grief by pushing others away," Jessica told him, gently, "But it's not _healthy_ for you to deal with it like that. Talk to me. You know you can talk to me."

He didn't even bother to reply. Jessica made a little moue of disgust, but determined not to give up; just because he didn't _want_ to be helped, didn't mean he _shouldn't_ be.

* * *

At the funeral, Jessica was careful to look the picture of gorgeous grief, to the point where she was so engrossed in her façade of grief that she didn't notice the service was over.

At the grave side – the crematorium had said, firmly, that they on no account did 'double bookings', so they had decided to simply bury them together – Jessica amused herself by staring round at the other mourners, casually taking in their clothes and general air.

_I don't like her hair cut_, she thought, of a frumpy looking woman with black hair cut into the woman's equivalent of a pudding-bowl haircut_, and her clothes are simply __**hideous**__, but… with a little bit of decent make up, she might be alright_… Her eyes landed on a tall, grey man, with bags under his eyes. _But there is no hope for him_. She decided, firmly. _None. None at all._

Once it was all over, Jessica decided that, for the sake of her façade, she should act just a few inches away from prostrate with grief, and was therefore hanging, limpet-like, from Lars' unwilling arm. She barely noticed the approach of Hopeless Man and Pudding-bowl Woman until they were a few feet away, and already talking to her.

"…Your new guardians. Your parents worked for us, before their tragic – accident." Pudding Bowl Woman was saying. "I'm Mrs. Jones, and this is Alan Blunt."

She held out her hand, and Jessica wiped away her false tears, taking the hand, and shaking it, limply. "Yes, of course." She wisped, faintly. "I'm so pleased to meet someone who knew Mummy and Daddy."

Mrs Jones gave her a faintly confused look. "Um – of course you are." She squared her shoulders, business-like, and fumbled in her bag for another chocolate peppermint; _so_ much tastier than the plain mints she used to suck. "Would you mind coming down to the Bank this Friday, to discuss some things? I think it would be useful…"

"Of- of course. I'm sure Lars will bring me." Jessica whispered, forcing out a few more tears.

The look Mrs. Jones gave her this time was frankly doubtful, and Jessica wondered, for a moment, whether she was over-playing her part, but then realised that it was probably more to do with Lars and his crusty-old-bastard exterior. How could she possibly have doubted her own acting? She was, after all, perfect. But then, no one except her saw past Lars' crusty-old-bastard exterior. It was because no one else was as innocent and sweet and kind-hearted as she was. "Perfect." Mrs. Jones pronounced, already starting to turn away. "We'll see you there, then. This Friday, at four. The Bank will send a car to pick you up."

"Wonderful." Jessica quavered, clinging even harder to Lars. Once the two adults were out of earshot, she sighed, and murmured, "Lars. Take me home."

Lars shook her off, and glowered at her. "Car. Now." He grunted, and stumped off. Jessica trailed behind him, calling,

"Its alright for you to show your pain, Lars. I _understand_. I _feel it with you_…"

* * *

That Friday, Jessica was met at the doors of the Bank from the luxurious black car which had been sent to pick her up.

"Miss Lumley-Partington? This way, please…"

She was taken up to a nineteenth floor office, mincing her way along corridors in her 'high-powered, professional' high heels. The office had fantastic views over London; a leather sofa stood in one corner, with some exotic flowering pot plant next to it, and a modern glass coffee table was stood in front of it. A man was stood by the window, and Mr. Blunt and Mrs. Jones were sat behind the enormous antique desk. Mrs. Jones' hat bore a strong resemblance to the exotic flowering pot plant, and Jessica wondered, vaguely, whether she was a devotee of Isabella Blow, the recently deceased eccentric hat designer. It certainly wouldn't have surprised her.

"Ah, Jessica." Mrs. Jones said, with a smile that barely touched her lips, let alone her eyes – botox, of course, Jessica recognised it straight away; her own dear, departed mother (who hadn't been anything like 'dear' until she had so suddenly become 'departed') had been so Botox-ed up that, by the end, she'd barely been able to talk, let alone smile. "Have a seat."

Blunt gave her a considering glance. "You look like an idiot. You'll do fine."

"Alan!" Mrs. Jones hissed, venomously, at the same time that Jessica, quivering in indignant rage, said,

"And you, sir, are abominably rude!" she attempted a dry smile. "But then, I suppose you wouldn't know courtesy if it bit you."

"And you wouldn't know how to use sarcasm if you were given an instruction manual, now shut up." The man at the window snorted at that. "I haven't slept for three weeks, and while I could pussy foot around you, I can't be bothered. I want you all out of here, so I can catch up on my sleep; so, here's the deal. We're MI6. If you tell anyone, we'll kill you. If you don't work for us, we'll sell your house, send that guardian of yours back to Poland-"

"Lars is Russian!"

"-back to Poland, and send you out onto the streets to work in a brothel." Blunt said. Bluntly. "So what's it going to be?"

To her credit, Jessica only paused for a minute or so. It took her a while to process all of what she was being told, and, besides, her feet hurt. "Well, I suppose you leave me no choice…" She sighed. "I-"

"Good." Blunt interrupted her, sharply. "You're going to be taken down to our training camp with Rider here," he gestured at the man by the window, who gave her a sarcastic little wave. She didn't deign to look at him. "In fact, you're going now. We've made all the necessary arrangements with everyone. Now, get out."

Jessica stood. "Don't think I'll forget your despicable behaviour, Mr. Blunt." She said, venomously.

"And don't think I'll forget your amazing capacity to talk like the heroine of a Jane Austen novel." He returned, coolly. "Now, get out, before I have someone throw you out. If I don't sleep soon, I may have the sudden urge to blow something up. Like Kuwait."

As the two teenagers left, Mrs. Jones said, a little confused. "Don't you think you were a little – harsh, Alan?"

He shrugged. "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn." (1)

* * *

Jessica stalked – as well as she could, in her high heels – down the corridor to the lift. "Disgusting – horrid – rude – _ugly _man!" she hissed, under her breath.

"You sound – stressed." The man – Rider – said, quietly. She turned to face him, and was surprised to see that he wasn't a man – more a boy. More like her age. More approachable. And very, very good looking.

Her mood changed on a sixpence. After all, Jessica Emerald Lumley-Partington, beautiful, newly-orphaned socialite, and now spy to MI6, was nothing if not adaptable. She slunk towards him, a little unsteadily. "Oh, no. Not any more."

The boy looked terrified out of his wits. "Um?" he squeaked.

* * *

Alex stared at the girl in unashamed terror. He didn't think he'd seen anything quite as scary since – well, since _ever_. Even Herod Sayle had been less terrifying.

"You know what?" he said, voice still embarrassingly high. "You take the lift. I'm going to take the stairs. Good exercise. And all that."

He made a dash for it.

* * *

The car journey down to Wales was hideously uncomfortable. Last time Alex had taken this journey, he'd been asleep – or, rather knocked out from tranquilizer darts by John Crawley – and he spent the entirety of this one wishing for the same blessing. Jessica Lumley-Whatsit was so unremittingly dull that Alex had taken to bashing his head against the window in a vain attempt to try and knock himself out.

"Alex, stop that!" she said, coyly. "You know, every time you hit your head, you lose ten brain cells?"

Alex shut his eyes, feeling black despair washing over him. "You must do it frequently, then." He muttered.

"Pardon?"

"Sorry, nothing." He said, more clearly, and went back to banging his head against the wall.

After half an hour, although Alex himself wasn't blessed with the chance to escape from the little MI6-created hell he was stuck in, Jessica herself fell asleep, which at least gave Alex the chance fro a little peace.

The driver glanced back at him, using his rear-view mirror. His expression was one of deepest, deepest sympathy. "You poor bastard." He said, simply.

Alex nodded, feelingly.

* * *

Done! And Done!!

(1) Yep, you guessed it, "Gone With the Wind"'s most famous quote. I nabbed it. Sorry, Margaret.

hope you enjoyed it!

-ami xxx


	2. Chapter 2

Well, here we go then - another quick romp with my dear Mary Sue, Jessica. Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter - I hope you enjoy this one as much! As a Mary Sue Parody (TM?), it's really only fair that I go on and on and on and on and on and on with this story to the point where I've bored every reader rigid. Isn't that what Mary Sues do in - um - "Real Life"?

Anyway, particular thanks go out to **Saynt Jimmy **and **Lost in Colour, **who are, I think, my most loyal reviewers every, having slogged through pretty much everything I've ever written, and loyally reviewed it all. **Saynt Jimmy** gets points, kudos and affection for having been there all the way through, for which a huge vote of thanks, and **Lost in Colour** amazed me by even reading my TMNT fanfiction, which, I know, takes nothing short of an iron will to get through.

Also, dedicated as always to **Von** who has no internet connection - I think - at the moment, but who has looked through this, and always helps me with my chapters. God knows I need it!

DISCLAIMER: Why, yes, of course Anthony Horowitz wants to mangle his own work like this. Why do you ask?

* * *

The first sight they had of the SAS camp at the Brecon Beacons was highly misleading; as the car crested one of Wales' many hills, Alex caught sight of the attractive little farm house, just in the lee of one of the hills surrounding the main camp. Alex assumed they were there to be kitted up with the requisite clothes and equipment, as he had been last time, and reluctantly – very, very reluctantly – leant across to wake Jessica Lumley-Whatsit.

She woke with a breathy little moan, fluttering her eyelashes up at him, and Alex had the sneaking suspicion she'd been awake for at least a few minutes already, just for the opportunity to do – that.

"We're here." He said, lunging back to his side of the back seat when she went to touch his face.

Thwarted, Lumley-Whatsit turned to look out of the window, hiding her pout. "Oh, how sweet!" she cooed, rather hoarsely – presumably, her throat was still a little gummed up, from being asleep for nearly three hours with her mouth open. Apparently, Jessica Lumley-Whatsit was many things, but an elegant sleeper she was not. Clearing her throat, she tried again. "Oh, how sweet! Is this the hotel we're staying at?"

Alex stared at her in frank shock. "Hotel?"

She turned wide, blank eyes on him. "Yes?"

He blinked a couple of times. "Um. Right. Hotel. Ye-e-es… hotel. Of course it is."

She nodded, smugly, and turned back to the view. "I thought so. I'm so rarely wrong, you see."

The driver and Alex exchanged a long, despairing look.

They arrived at the manor house a few minutes later, and Jessica bounded out, no doubt expecting to head for 'reception', while Alex slid out the car with marked reluctance. The driver, pulling a nondescript black bag out of the boot of the car, said, in a low voice,

"Good luck, mate." He handed him the bag. "That's for you; from Smithers. He said to tell you, that if things get too much, you should find a solution in here."

Alex looked down at the bag, then up again at the driver. "Wow. Smithers finally gave me drugs?"

* * *

Jessica pouted her way through the ordeal that was being fitted with her new 'clothes' – horrid, sack-like things, she thought, mutinously, just _designed_ to make her look hideous, and in front of that fit Rider boy, too; though, he didn't seem to keen to fall into her arms… Jessica simply couldn't understand it. 

There was only one way to deal with it. She would simply have to dazzle him with her prowess and skill in their training; remain aloof and cool, make him want to chase her. Boys liked the thrill of the chase, Jessica knew, and she would make him fall in love with her through her elite skills, and sparkling dry wit, make him gnash his teeth that he couldn't have her, before she finally relented and let him have his wicked way with her.

Jessica was a little vague as to what 'having his wicked way with her' would actually entail, but she'd never let a little thing like ignorance get in the way of her goals, and she certainly wasn't about to start letting it at this stage. It wasn't like she couldn't do it; after all, she was a black belt in Tai Chi. There was nothing she couldn't handle.

She sighed, rapturously, at her little dream of the perfect boyfriend to go with her perfect looks and razor sharp mind, and was therefore shocked when a pair of thick, black leather boots flew into her stomach; she doubled over them, unwittingly clutching them to her, with a rather ungraceful 'oof!' Someone, somewhere in this horrid room, laughed, and, mentally, Jessica promised them a swift revenge. They would never stand up to the awesome power of her origami!

With dignity, she stood up, plastered her sweetest smile onto her face, and said, sweetly, "I forgive all of you."

With that sweet parting line, she swept from the room, unaware of the ridiculous sight she made, in full combat gear, with 'high-powered, professional' heels on, clutching a pair of combat boots.

There was a long, stunned silence, until someone broke it.

"Now, lads, _that_ is why they don't let women into the SAS."

* * *

Alex had been waiting for Jessica for nearly five minutes, when he heard a vaguely familiar voice, raised and annoyed, from behind him. 

"Look, why me? It's not like I'm any good with kids! And it's worse when they're _girls_! I wouldn't know what to do with a girl!"

"That's something you should take up with your girlfriend, Lieutenant, not me." Another voice replied, crisply. "All I'm asking you to do is train and look after these kids OK? They'll be gone soon. You never know – one of them might even be competent."

"I doubt it." The familiar voice muttered. Alex was starting to get a really bad feeling about 'the familiar voice'. It was just a little _too_ familiar for comfort.

"Lieutenant, are you a member of the SAS, or a whiny little girl?" the other voice returned, sharply. "Deal with it and grow up."

The owner of the familiar voice stomped past Alex, where he stood waiting for Jessica, barely even sparing him a glance – then he stopped in his tracks, turned, stomped back, and stared at him.

"Hang on." He said, very slowly. "Don't I know you?"

Alex stared back at him for a long moment, then nodded, dumbly. "Um – yes."

"…Cub?"

Alex nodded again."

"Oh, holy shit." Wolf said, and groaned. "You as well?"

"Hey!" Alex said, offended, "It could be a lot worse!" Then he remembered Jessica. "Scrap that, it _is_ a lot worse."

"Oh, _god_." Wolf half-moaned. Pausing, and visibly bringing himself under control, he said, in a voice which was almost calm, "So – what the hell are _you_ doing here? I mean, I thought you'd done this?"

Alex shrugged. "I – really don't know why I'm here." He said, slowly. "I think I'm just here to make sure that I – get to know this girl. And, maybe, keep an eye on her?" he paused, and ruthlessly suppressed the grin which was trying to sneak onto his face. "Then again, now that she's under your tender care…"

"Keep talking like that, and you'll be running the assault course for the rest of your _life_, Cub." Wolf growled, and Alex grinned.

"See? You've got this 'in control' thing _down_. Though – it may not work on Her."

Wolf looked around, carefully scanning their surroundings for any listeners, and took a step forward, his entire bearing radiating 'furtive'. "What's this girl _like_? I mean, is she – alright?"

"In what sense?" Alex hedged, cautiously. "I mean, are we talking 'alright' as in 'sane', or 'alright' as in 'a bit of alright'?"

Wolf stepped back, a look of repulsion on his face. "Jesus _Christ_, Cub, she's fourteen! I don't want to know what she's like – _that_ way!" he moaned again. "Eurgh, I think I need to scrub my mind out…"

Alex smiled, unrepentant and sweet; Jessica could have taken lessons. "Oh. Sorry."

"So? What's she like – _personality_ wise?" Wolf asked, stressing the qualifier.

"She's…" Alex paused. "Difficult."

"Difficult?" Wolf returned, nervously. "In what way, difficult?"

Alex shrugged, and nodded at the entrance to the building. "You'll find out."

"Oh, thanks a lot, Cub, thanks a whole damn bunch." Wolf hissed, venomously, turning slowly to face the manor house. "'Difficult'. Yeah, thanks for that, forewarned is fore-fucking-armed, and all that… 'You'll find out'…honestly, trying to get information out of you spec-ops lot is like trying to get blood out of a – sweet _Jesus_…"

That last was uttered in soft, reverently terrified tones, when Wolf finally spotted Jessica Lumley-Whatsit, stood in the doorway.

She looked – it had to be said – utterly ridiculous. Her hair and make up were still fit for a night out in London, but her clothes had been changed, and in the combat gear – none of which came in the right size for a fourteen year old girl – hung on her, awkward and sack-like; the overall effect was actually faintly grotesque, especially when coupled with the high heels she was still wearing, and the combat boots she was still clutching, rather madly.

"Jessica." Alex choked out. "How – um…"

She gave him a tremulous little smile, the pout still firmly in place. "Oh, Alex… everyone here is so _mean_ to me…"

Wolf, beside Alex, actually whimpered.

* * *

Alex was settled into one of barracks with the other enlisted men who were stationed at the camp for the moment – Jessica, because she was the only girl in the camp, was given a small room of her own, attached the HQ in the main camp. 

Once Alex was settled in, he headed out to find Wolf, and see what they would be doing today, only to find Jessica already there.

"…So, have you been doing this long?"

Wolf shot the girl a look of unabashed hatred. "A while."

"So… you're good, then?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you decide to be a spy? It's so much more _romantic_." Jessica said, sweetly.

"Strangely enough, romance isn't the thing which attracted me to my job." Wolf told her, sourly.

"Oh, but romance should be every human's main aim in life!" Jessica opined, sighing rapturously for the second time that day.

"Well, it's not mine." He caught sight of Alex, and a look of blissful relief spread across his face. "Cub! Thank god you're here!" he cleared his throat. "I mean, um… it's nice of you to turn up, finally."

"Did you get lost, Alex?" Jessica asked him, kindly, seizing the chance to implement her plan of staying 'aloof' from him while simultaneously dazzling him with her skills and savvy. "Don't worry, I'm sure you'll soon be able to find your way around as easily as I can."

Alex gritted his teeth, and offered her a tight smile. "Oh, if only I could be that lucky."

"I'm sure you will be. One day." She told him, blithely unaware of the sarcasm.

Wolf cleared his throat, fighting down a smile. Jessica's comments were hilarious – so long as they weren't aimed at you. "Right. Everyone here has codenames. I'm called Wolf-"

"What's your real name?" Jessica asked. Sweetly.

"I'm not telling you that – it's classified."

"But, you know my name." she pointed out.

"That's because you brayed it at me the moment you met me." Wolf muttered.

"Sorry?"

"I said, that's because you told me it. You didn't have to. I'm not allowed to tell you my name, so I'm not going to."

She took a step towards him, swaying her hips as much as she could – it nearly overbalanced her, but it was a noble attempt, all the same – and attempted a seductive look through eyelashes gone spidery and spiky from too much mascara. "Couldn't you make an exception for me?"

Wolf looked at her. "No."

Alex jumped in, quickly. "_Anyway_. What's Jessica's codename going to be?"

"Don't you need to worry about _your _codename, Alex?" Jessica asked, half sweet-poison, half genuine interest.

"I've already got one; I've been here before."

"And you still got lost?" Jessica asked, sweetly mocking. "My, you _are_ unobservant, aren't you? No wonder you need me to keep you in line!"

Alex gave her a darkling look under his eyelashes, markedly more successful than Jessica's attempts to be seductive. "What's. Her. Codename?" he asked Wolf, slowly.

"Rat." Wolf said, straight-faced.

Jessica gave a little shriek. "No! I refuse to be called something so _vulgar_! Couldn't I have a _decent_ codename – like, Kitten, or Fawn, or something?"

Wolf looked faintly repulsed. "Um. Kitten? Really?"

"Yes!"

Wolf pretended to think about it for an entire minute, before shaking his head. "Sorry, no can do. Right, your codename is Piglet-" Alex stared at him, one eyebrow raised. "What? It was the only baby-animal name we could come up with that wasn't sickeningly sweet. Like, y'know – Kitten."

"I'm sorry, how many of you did it take to come up with that name?" Alex asked, carefully.

Wolf thought about it for a second. "Oh, I don't know – two units and a half, so… about ten of us."

"Well, you know the joke about how many SAS men does it take to change a light-bulb…" Alex muttered.

"Sorry, what was that?" Wolf asked, his tone faintly dangerous.

"Well, I was just wondering…" Alex began, innocently, "Whether you got your inspiration for her codename from Winnie the Pooh?"

Wolf paused, colouring slightly. "Well, I suppose it's _possible_… if I ever y'know, read Winnie the Pooh, that is…"

Alex grinned. "You love it, don't you? Bet you took a copy to Iraq with you, right? And read it whenever things got scary…"

"I have nieces and nephews!" Wolf returned, hotly. "I read them bedtime stories, OK?"

"Aw, and do they wuv their unc'e Wolfie?" Alex teased back. Wolf lunged for him and had him in a headlock before Alex could get out of the way, and was just in the process of trying to twist the boy's head off his neck, when Jessica piped up.

"What's wrong with Winnie the Pooh?" she asked, her voice sickly with sweet innocence. "_I_ still read him. Such sweet, girlish books. It shows – such innocence of spirit, don't you think? Such a real tenderness for the world around you."

Wolf and Alex both stilled, staring at her in frank shock. "And you wonder why we _don't_ read it?" Wolf asked, without letting go of Alex's neck, but giving the boy enough room to nod his agreement.

Jessica looked at them blankly, and was about to reply, when a loud voice interrupted her. She huffed something about 'abominable rudeness', but Wolf and Alex heaved sighs of relief, practically in tandem, before springing apart.

"Lieutenant, I _suggest_ you let that boy go _now_ unless you really _want_ to be _done_ for the _assault and abuse_ of a _minor_!"

Alex turned, and found himself face to face with that same sergeant he'd met last time, who gave him a frankly unpleasant smile, before turning to Jessica.

"Cub – Piglet," Alex had never heard anyone cram so much distaste into one word, "You're running the assault course." The unpleasant grin was back. "Wolf, you're going to help them." He paused. "Remember – you go over as a team. I'll be watching."

Alex stared at him, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, as Jessica cooed, behind him,

"An assault course? How adorable!"

He glanced at Wolf, who was sporting an identical hang-dog expression to his own. "Kill me now."

* * *

(grins) 

Hope you enjoyed!

Lol, ami xxx


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